The sea was lulling to him, even though anticipation coursed through like an antidote and swayed his senses. He was standing next to her, the Queen, the Khaleesi, his Queen.

Tyrion, it was true, doubted his resolve in the vast undertaking Daenerys had set before them all. He doubted the Unsullied, the Dothraki, the Iron Born. He doubted whether Cersei would let him live. Whether Jamie would forgive him for murdering their father.

All this he doubted, and more. He was prone to doubt, for it was in his nature to do so.

But he did not doubt her, so when she said this would be done, he believed her. He believed that Daenerys would conquer Westeros and sit on the Iron Throne.

Tyrion left her side for the first time since boarding, and went to the deck below. He poured himself some wine and drank deeply…its medicinal effects were felt immediately and he sighed.

"You drink too much for any man, let alone a man of your…"

"Don't," he held up a finger. "Say it."

Varys laughed a touch and sat across from him. "When will you give up this endless drowning? You're too bright for it."

"I drink because nothing else does what this lovely liquid does, Varys. I've sought to find its replacement. Do let me know if you find such a thing," and he downed the wine.

"Our Queen will need you to be lucid once we reach the shore. She is counting on it."

Tyrion did not look at him, but poured some more. "And by the time we reach Westeros, I shall be."

Varys cleared his throat and looked at him with a question on his face. "Are you worried about seeing your siblings?"

"I've heard what Cersei has done. No one will support her. Perhaps not even Jamie."

"It's shocking, really," and he sat back. "I can see many, many things coming. Cersei destroying the Sept was not one of them."

"My lovely sister is ruthless, and with all of her children gone now, she is positively terrifying."

"She would like to see you dead," Varys observed.

"Thank you for that," he drank more and poured more in turn.

After another smile, he replied. "Why are you down here? You've been named Hand of the Queen. You should be at her side, as any Hand would."

Tyrion did not immediately answer. He too sat back in his chair, then looked at the eunuch with a puzzled look painted on his visage. "I find the sea air unsettling."

"You find it unsettling."

"That's right," and more wine slid down his throat. "Tell me, Varys, does it cause you disquiet to know everything there is to know, except what goes on in people's heads?"

"That is easier to discover than you think."

"Probably, but I prefer to think of my own mind as just that. My own mind. You can attempt to unlock the many rooms which I keep things away from the prying ears of your little birds, but if I confide in no one, then it stands to reason that no one will ever know."

"Occasionally, a man's secrets can be observed in his looks, and not what he says explicitly."

At this, Tyrion paled, for though he knew what ailed him, he had not even admitted it to himself, and as adept as Varys was at deciphering looks, well. He might need to be especially cautious. He deflected with a laugh. "It's probably indigestion you mistake for murderous intent."

"…or lovelorn drunkards with an aptitude toward witticisms and pithy observations."

He stared at him…surely he could not have discovered…"Varys, your cryptic words mean nothing to me. Perhaps you should start drinking, it would at least give you an excuse for your bizarre behavior."

The eunuch stood. "Don't waste all of your time here, Tyrion. You are the Queen's closest and most trusted advisor now. She expects you near her," and he left.

She expects me to be near her…

And part of him felt comfort in that. And part of him felt guilty for encouraging her to dismiss Daario.

He had said that he wanted her to be free of all binds when landing on Westerosi shores…and he did.

…but there might have been more to it than that.

Though he never admitted such a motive.

Tyrion looked at the bottle. "Why there's but a drop left," and he poured it into his glass. "Sometimes," he said, as he held the bottle between his fingers. "You are my only friend in the world."

"I'd be very sorry, after our time together, that you don't consider me at all a friend," Daenerys was standing in the doorway, a slight smile on her face.

He stood, knocking the chair over with his abruptness…"Was I needed….?"

"No. I merely wondered where you were. I did not need to think hard," and her smile grew. "You will be able to offer counsel after all that wine, I trust?" and she walked into the room.

"Of course," and he picked the chair up. "What advice do you seek?"

"Nothing. I sought my Hand."

Tyrion cleared his throat. "You can be certain that should you need me, I will be at your side."

"And how do you propose to do that, Tyrion, when too often the only thing by your side is an empty bottle?"

"I assure you, my Queen, that an empty bottle would never be at my side. Only a full bottle would I bother with."

She laughed. "See that you're above deck soon," she nodded, he bowed, and she left.

He rolled his eyes. What was he doing? He was Hand of the Queen…exactly the position he wished to be in…

…and what he had told her in Meereen was true. Daario was not the first nor the last to love her. A Khal had, and Tyrion sighed. A Khal.

Jorah, who offered her so much counsel and protection. Nearly died for her.

And Daario, one of the handsomest men in Essos. Probably Westeros, too, if he was honest.

And a dwarf. An imp. An ugly, hated, mocked, drunkard, who could not even secure his own father's affection.

Everyone loved Daenerys Stormborn.

No one loved Tyrion Lannister, save one whore. And she was wooed by his own father.

Yes, he thought. He loved her. He had fought the impulse, and he failed.

There must be something intoxicatingly magical about her, that she could ensnare so very many…

And something idiotic about him that he fell for it, too.

He stared out of the smallish window of the ship. He felt like a fool. He would need to check himself. He was the Hand of the Queen now. No time for ridiculous romantic temptation.

Romance…and a slight reflection of his face was caught in the window against the salt sea…

…he threw his glass at it, and turned to leave for the stairs.